Grumpy With Travel Luggage

                                                        

The Dreaded One and I are lucky enough to be heading overseas again. We dusted off our luggage recently and while she looked fondly upon her trusty steed, I instinctively lashed out and kicked the living shit out of mine, screaming hateful insults at it.

“Grumpy – what are you doing?”

“Sorry Dreaded One,” I panted from my exertions, wiping sweat and spittle from my face... and giving that son-of-a-bitch suitcase one last, heartfelt kick. “I think it's like when war vets have flashbacks. I just had a flashback.”

“It's a suitcase. You put clothes in it to go travelling. How can you compare that to a war flashback?”

“You weren't there,” I say as I massage the trauma from my forehead... attempt to massage the trauma from my... attempt to ease the trauma inside my head by massaging my forehead. “You didn't see the horror... the horror...”

“You are not Marlon Brando and I was there. You just chose poorly, that's all.”

Her words become echoey and my world goes wavy like some b-grade special effect indicating a shift back in time...in time... time... time...

It all started out pleasantly enough. After The Twisted Back Incident in Turkey, 2006 in which I had hoisted my back-pack onto my shoulders in such a swashbuckling manner and, well, twisted my spine into the source of the universe's most excruciating pain, I decided that I'd try one of those bags-on-wheels. Dragging, surely, must be less painful than hoisting-and-lugging.

My big mistake was in choosing a narrow wheel base model. Everything else about this bag was well made. Solid stitching. Handles made for heaving. Sturdy in every way.

Until you walked for more than 20 steps. Inside the shop when test driving, you could only go five steps. So you didn't get the death wobble effect that kicked in around 15 steps which got worse and worse until the bag keeled over on its side around the 20 step mark. On European streets. Every. Fucking. Time.

In Arles, Southern France, brief home of Van Gogh and his fleeting friend Gaugin. Two of the greatest artists of our times. In one year Van Gogh painted more than 300 paintings, such was the inspiration of this city with its ancient Roman ruins. But what is my burning image of this place? The combination of The Dreaded One's Nav Bitch sending us on a wild goose chase while my suitcase tipped over for the … oh I don't know... the squillionth time?

While bucolic French types with their baguettes tucked under their arm stopped to watch in Gallic bemusement, I lost it. I vented spleen. I raged. Seethingly, I bemoaned that we were not in America, because in God Bless America one of these bemused bystanders would at least be carrying a Smith & Goddamn mother fucking Wesson instead of a loaf of bread, and I could finally end this thing once and for all you Goddamn falling-over piece of shit luggage!

And it shames me to admit that as no Smith & Wesson was forthcoming, yes, I bludgeoned my luggage with a stolen baguette... baguette... baguette...

Echo and wobbly visuals and I was back in the here and now with The Dreaded One. Her with her expensive, well-chosen wheely bag with its wide wheel base and lack of death wobbles.

“So you will choose wisely this time?” she asks as I come back from my journey into the past. Arles... it had been the last in a long string of similar events. She had paid good money upfront. Time and time again I had thought how can you go wrong with cheap stuff made in China? Only to be now regretting the small mountain of discarded shit luggage I had contributed to. Death wobbles. Crap handles that fall apart at the touch. Wheels that fall of if you so much as frown at them. Never will I buy luggage made in China again.

“Yes,” I nod solemnly. “My back pack. Now there's some sturdy luggage.”

“The one that wrecked your back in Turkey? Oh. Oh good.”

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, freelance writer and luggage basher. If you want him to write something for you he might just put down the baguette and take up his keyboard. He's at leebemrose666@gmail.com

Counting Down... Leaving In 7 Days

Here is my new Grumpy column logo wotsit. I think it's better than the old one. The old one was chosen by the mag and while funny initially, I don't think it really captured the spirit of Grumpy. This one comes closer. Grumpy the character is not actually grumpy. He's just a bit... he's a bit like he is in this picture, which was taken by The Dreaded One at Maitreya 2012. He's a bit... baffled by life. Baffled by his own ineptitude. He's a bit head-shakingly amused by absolutely everything. The original was funny enough, taken as it was just as a dubstep set started, but I really like what the designers have done to it.

So. Anyway.


I have left my current job and The Dreaded One and I are officially less than a week away from leaving the country on another adventure. Our home is now filled with boxes of our stuff, which will be put into other boxes in a storage place by men who specialise in moving boxes. This move will be much easier than the the previous move. This time, we are moving just down the road to East Brunswick. We have nothing lined up but like the suburb. Stuff will fall into place. I was very touched when I left this last place of work. Sweet things were said, sweet thoughts were shared. I bumped into some lovely people who I'd be happy to bump into again.

 Meantime, first stop Athens. Ferry to Santorini, which I keep hearing from people who have been there is possibly the most beautiful place on Earth. Then heading across to Corfu, Italy, heading into somewhat familiar territory of Spain and Portugal. Boom - a week of partying. Friends along the way. Friends at Boom and afterwards.

I know some people think I'm lucky to be doing this again. Some people who don''t know how hard The Dreaded One and I have worked might think we've had help along the way. Not so. Our luck has been our luck and our hard work has been our hard work to enjoy as we feel we should.

And there's the living-for-now outlook on life; we just think if you're going to do it, do it. So many people talk about the things they'd like to do... sometimes you just have to say fuck it and do stuff that doesn't make sense.

So fuck it - we're putting our things in boxes again and going on an adventure to see amazing things and be with wonderful friends.

Getting My Geek On

The above is soon to appear in the real world.  Having these cards printed to use for promotional purposes. They should be in my sweaty little hands this week, maybe next week. My friend The Design Assassin has put it all together and I'm pretty happy so far. Especially the QR code, that weird square pattern thing. It's a little bit of Shit That Is Amazing.

Got a smart phone? Download a barcode scanning app, then aim your camera at the square of Shit That Is Amazing and follow the prompts.

QR Codes (Quick Response Codes) are already out there and have been for a few years now, but it's new to me and therefore the newest, coolest thing ever. I love that it was a barcode invented by Toyota for factory purposes, but someone realised that with smart phone technology they would be perfect for marketting.

Shit is amazing.

Two weeks tomorrow and The Dreaded One and I take off. How do I feel about that? A bit strange... but it's strangely familiar. Only eight weeks this time but a lot of ground to cover in that time. Then back to Melbourne with no home and no job. Scary. Reckless. But living. Proper living.

Also, read my interview with Camille, who I happen to think is a gorgeous human.

Links 2012

Here is what I thought of Zoe Keating's performance at Toff In The Town.

Here is my Q & A with Zoe Keating.

And here is my book, 17 Stories Of Love & Crime.

Been busy. Countdown has begun to leaving for Europe again. Am very lucky, if a bit concerned about coming  back homeless and jobless again. Loving Melbourne, loving life, but really... it's just a little bit scary doing this sort of thing AGAIN. But it will be fine.

17 Stories Of Love & Crime by Lee Bemrose, Loose Cannon Publishing.

Well this has been an interesting process, but 17 Stories Of Love & Crime is finally up on Amazon. It's about three weeks since I got all buzzy about doing this, and it has been frustrating, challenging and rewarding. There are websites out there offering to do it for you for a fee, and I can see why. But it's so much more satisfying to do it yourself.

I'm happy that it's out there. But what do I want out of it? Hmm. It was reading the success stories that motivated me, but it was as much about the fact that you can do it yourself as it was about the hope of becoming one of those success stories. Naturally I would like it to take off, but ultimately I'm happy enough to finally have a collection of stories together and available to share with others. I've enjoyed putting these stories together, even if they have been written over many years. Each is individual and written without the others in mind, yet when I compiled them I recognised something in each of them in the others. And in compiling them I have kept the others in mind and there are fleeting references to each other throughout, characters or situations in one story referred to in other stories.

And for me, it's strangely autobiographical. Usually a single thing happens that sparks a story, and re-reading these stories I remember so much about that single thing and the time in my life that it happened. The passing of The Dreaded One's father was largely responsible for Remembering Argos, though of course there are many moments within that story. The passing of my grandmother made me think about the home I usually dream about when I dream about home, even if my own fleeting passing and subsequent rescuing is at the core of Blue Angeline. A troubled conversation with a beautiful former friend on a sunny day in the park was the spark for Ruben Jane, even if Ruben Jane's troubles are more personal. That one also came from my urge to write the darkest love story that I could.

In a way, all these stories are very real, or have some foundation in reality. They didn't happen, but in a way, they did. At a wedding when the wind was blowing and I couldn't hear the ceremony, my mind wandered and I thought up The Best Man. The woman who twists her ankle getting out of the car in Finding Davey, that was a real moment, as was the final scene in One Moment. The crane in The Funniest Man In The World Tells A Funny Story really did fall and crush that hotel, narrowly missing a group of us drinking out the back. The funniest man himself came about because of how sad I felt watching Spike Milligan doing something naff before a group of reporters and seeing them falling about in sucking-up laughter. Being Groover Terminator all happened, and none of it happened. I wrote that one as a series, painting the character (me) into a corner each week... a guy really did think I was DJ Groove Terminator, my hairdresser Jasmine did ask me to put her in the story and she really does like tequila. We really did get stoned and go on about the biiiirrrdeeees, and Jez and Ann are in there. And GT's manager did phone up and ask if they could post the story on GT's website, and weirdly I met GT and we bumped into each other a few times in the following years.

The bouncer in Stabulous The Clown? Real. The clown? Fucked if I know where I get some stuff from. As real as so many details and moments are in these stories, others are pure fiction, their origin baffling. Quick? His name is short for Quixotic, which is how I view the so-called war on drugs. Some of the characters in there are real. The setting was Home nighclub, the menacing bouncer there was also real. So many small moments make up these stories. The artist in Losing All Of You was a sideways glimpse of a guy on Swanston Street when I was there a couple of years ago with my friend Kat, alongside the essence of conversations real and imagined.

Turtle Bay all kind of happened... thinking about it, sometimes it's hard to remember what actually happened and what was made up. Maybe all of it happened. Maybe none of it happened. Why ask me? What do I know? I just wrote it.

And The Dreaded One, she is there throughout. If you squint, you can even see her there on the cover, which is a photo I took in Prague in 2010. I can't imagine a better cover for this book. I like its moodiness.

If people read it I hope they enjoy it. As far as hoping for any success, like I said it would be nice but mainly it was just a thing to do, a process to go through. I'm aiming to go through the same process (only more smoothly) in compiling The Book Of Grumpy, which as you'll know if you've been to this blog before, is all about the larfs.

Grumpy & The Dandy Warhols

Grumpy

Grumpy is hard-hitting journo and freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). He takes his craft very, very seriously.

When I was asked if I was interested in doing an interview with The Dandy Warhols, I jumped at it because... well because I happen to like the Dandy Warhols' music quite a lot. I know Courtney Taylor-Taylor has a bit of a reputation for not exactly snuggling up and canoodling with the media. It's not like you see Courtney Taylor-Taylor and The Media wandering through sun-dappled parks, holding hands and whispering in hot breath into each others ears about how much they need each other. You don't see them sitting on beaches at sunset with Courtney's head nestled comfortably on The Media's shoulder as he murmurs lovingly, “Media – I just don't know what I'd do without you.” These are absurd images that only the mind of an absurd person would conjure.

In fact, as you are probably aware, Mr Taylor-Taylor has said that he fucking hates doing interviews and would prefer not to do any at all. Apparently when he finishes a project, such as the new dandy's album This Machine, he spends as much as half a day each day doing interviews. I don't think this would be a bad way to spend half a day if you enjoyed talking about your latest creative endeavour, and if you spent all that time facing genuinely interesting and original questions. Sadly, I don't think interesting and original is how the Dandy's frontman would describe most of the questions he has to face.

Thing is, before any interview like this, I read up big time. I like to find out as much as possible about the interviewee and what makes them tick, which topics get one-line answers and the kinds of things they really like to open up to. I want to know which questions keep coming up so that I can avoid those very questions.

I had to interview a local playwright recently and read an interview he had done the previous week. The piece sucked the proverbial dog's dangly bits because the interviewer based her whole line of questioning on the playwright's Wikipedia profile and (apparently in awe of being in contact with him) she barely mentioned the play he was pimping and just asked about his life and thoughts generally. You could almost hear the yawns in his printed answers. I put in some effort and was rewarded with answers sometimes longer than her whole piece. It was like we'd interviewed two different people.

Sometimes you can get away with a couple of uncreative questions. Sometimes you have to completely come at the thing from left field. I interviewed comedian Sam Simmons once and after seeing the Youtube clip of him having a staring competition with actor Seth Green, I challenged him to a staring competition. Over the phone? Yeah. He loved it. I loved it. My suggestion that the mag run an intro, the staring competition challenge, then a blank page... the magazine, they didn't love it so much.

With Courtney Taylor-Taylor, my in-depth profiling came to the conclusion that it was pretty well impossible to come up with the kinds of questions that were going to genuinely engage the man. And hell, he's busy and would rather cut down time spent interviewing so that he can make music.

So I came up with a multiple choice interview. I've written all the answers so he just has to spend a few minutes ticking the appropriate box. It could be a fun read, or it could fall flat on its arse.

Personally I think there is real potential for the multiple choice interview. Your thoughts?

A. That is an awesome idea, Grumpy. You should should take it to the big league like Letterman and Craig Ferguson. Interviewing Hollywood A-listers by multiple choice rocks! Wooh!

B. As a revolutionary concept it's as dumb as planking.

C. Stupid idea but if anyone can pull it if it would be you. When it comes to stupid ideas, you're the go-see guy.

Hmm. Stay tuned.

Jam Xpress Interview, Stephen House Interview

Story I did on Jam Xpress for Forte mag. Soooo not my kind of music and not my scene. I really didn't know how I was going to handle it, but I think I did okay. I don't think you can tell it's very very not my kind of music. And very very not my scene.

Next interview is with The Dandy Warhols.

Oh and there is this interview with Stephen House , re his very excellent Appalling Behaviour, which I reviewed briefly here last September. Well worth catching. Four nights only at the quirky Butterfly Club in South Melbourne.

I am still in formatting purgatory with 17 Stories Of Love & Crime, but I am getting there. See below post if that doesn't make any sense. Soon. Soon...

And this is what a professional does. Thank you, Design Assassin. I love the look of this. Book out soon.

Can't Wait For The Penguin

I am about to enter the world of self-publishing. I came very close today to publishing 17 Stories Of Love And Crime on Amazon's Kindle, only to find that it's not quite as quick and easy as it sounds if you live in Australia. It was a good day of learning though, and I think the stories will be up during next week. For all the frustration the internet provides, I am still amazed by its seeming magic. It will be fun to put writing/marketing skills to the test. I don't expect to make much money from this little project, I just want it to be fun and will be chuffed if a few strangers buy my book. It will be a good practice run for The Book Of Grumpy. I expect that to make me a bill-io-naire, and I will demand the finest wines known to humanity, and I will want them here, and I will want them now!

The shot above is the one I have chosen for 17 Stories Of Love And Crime (there are actually 19 stories... you get two freebies). It's a photo of Ann reflected in an artwork in a gallery in Prague in 2010.

Oh and I've just updated the cover shot by adding words to the image, something I had no idea how to do an hour ago. Not a bad job for a chump like me. Still, as I was working out how to do it I asked a friend, The Design Assassin, for advice. She has kindly offered to do it for me, so expect a better quality update soon.

Still, not bad.

Sanderson Jones' Comedy Sale, Melbourne 2012, Revenge Review

Grumpy

Draft copy of my... what the fuck has blogger done? They've changed shit and I don't know how to right justify. Crapping crap. Anyway... draft copy of new Grumpy column. Have to shorten it a bit for the mag. But it's late and deadline is sometime in the morning. And I am Grumpy.

There's a comedian called Sanderson Jones who could be coming to a comedy festival near you. He's been doing the world comedy festival circuit and has been getting pretty good reviews, so I thought I'd check him out.

Thing is, he doesn't always appear on the comedy festival program and you can't book tickets to his shows through the usual outlets. Contact has to be made. You need to follow him on Twitter or friend him on Facebook to find out where and when he'll be to sell you tickets in person. At the transaction he takes your photo, and then between the time of the ticket sale and the show, he does a bit of internet snooping on many of his audience members. Intriguing stuff. There is the potential for mass public humiliation, of course; who can remember every little comment or picture they have posted on Facebook or their blog? I have seen some inane shit posted in my time, but I didn't think I'd have anything to worry about because most of my inane shit is like this column; intentionally inane shit.

On the night of the gig, as the audience of around 400 filled the theatre, Sanderson Jones made his way through the crowd to the stage as we took our seats. Bit of banter with the punters, and suddenly I wondered if I should be worried after all, because he paused, looked down to me and said, “Hello, Lee.” Could have been my imagination, but he was sounding a bit like Christopher Lee in one of those old Dracula movies.

The show started and indeed many in the audience were singled out and amusing posts and status updates were projected onto a large screen. Including a couple of my intentionally inane ones. All good. All sweet, if a little weird to see your name and your words meant for friends splashed onto the big screen in front of guffawing strangers.

All was going hilariously well until the comedian let some laughter die down before asking, “Do we have any critics in the audience?”

I quickly checked out the various exit signs and picked my best options.

“Critics like Lee Bemrose,” he said as he squinted into the lights in my direction. “Are you here, Lee Bemrose?”

Fuck.

“No!” I shouted back. “He is not here.”

“Because I'd like you to come up on stage and compete in The Critics' Obstacle Course!”

Oh the Colosseum was into this. I gripped the arms of my chair and made it clear that everyone could just fuck off because no way was I competing in any kind of obstacle course designed by this vampire for the amusement of 400 utter utter bastards whose joy clearly came from the fact that they were safe whilst I was about to be made a spectacle of.

Ringleader was, of course, The Dreaded One, who thought it was all quite hilarious. “You have to do it! It will be so funny!”

Needless to say, I ended up on stage with one other reviewer. A third reviewer who had been called had clearly been a faster runner than the two of us onstage and had made it to one of those emergency exits and was nowhere in sight.

The first stage of our obstacle course was a spoon and egg race, to be followed by a pie fight with the vampire-comedian, followed by the critics dashing back across the stage to jump through hoops held by His Minions.

It was as the comedian was telling us the bit about the pie fight that I turned to my onstage victim and asked if he would mind holding my spoon and egg for a moment. Looking confused but happy to help, he took my spoon and egg and I tried to sneak back off stage, leaving him standing with both spoons and eggs.

The Colosseum erupted with equal parts laughter and boos, and a hellish glare from Dracula returned me to my starting position.

The obstacle course itself was a bit of a blur. Because I had been trying to sneak off the stage I missed the bit about throwing the pies at each other. I just arrived at the pie table and didn't know what to do next. Suddenly there was lots of pie throwing, however, and always quick to catch on, I threw pies. Later The Dreaded One would ask how on Earth I managed to not get a single drop of cream pie on me when the others were covered in the stuff. What can I say? I'm a Pie Fight Ninja. You have been warned.

And the minions holding the hoops? Naturally they moved the hoops each time we jumped.

The thing about all this is, is it really so smart to get revenge on your reviewers before they have reviewed your show?

“No,” Sanderson Jones admitted when I asked him this over a post-show drink. “Don't know what I was thinking, really. Especially when I've read many of your Grumpy columns now, Lee, and I have to hand it to you, you are one funny bastard. Way, way funnier than I am. In fact I'm going back to the drawing board and learning from you, the master, I'm going to try really really hard to be a better comedian.”

“Well that's good to hear, Sanderson,” I replied. “The promising thing is that you have a lot of room for improvement. A lot. In fact here's a Venn Diagram... this tiny little circle here is how good you are now, and this separate great big circle over here represents your 'room for improvement.'”

“Ah. I see what you mean. And hey... this Venn Diagram thing... that could be a great addition to the show. You mind if I borrow that?”

And so my story ends... except I'm wondering... if it's a mistake to take revenge on on a reviewer prior to their writing of the review, is it a mistake for me to be getting my revenge here when cyber-stalking comedians can have their revenge at another comedy festival, in another Colosseum?

Damnit. I really should think this through before publishing, shouldn't I.

The Pomposity Of The Knife

So what's just concerned me is that there are three forms of cutlery. How, though, is it that the knife is the one to claim the collective naming rights of cutlery? The fork and the spoon are equals in this arrangement - why are they not called pokelery in honour of the fork? Or scooplery in honour of the spoon?

The big questions, they keep me awake at night.

Fishing

Here is a recent, slightly strange photo of The Dreaded One and me having fun at an outdoor party. Lots and lots of fun. Oh the fun we are having.

I have no idea what is going on in either of our heads at that point in time, but we are clearly very focused on whatever it is we are focused on.

And here is a recent conversation between The DreadedOne and me:

Me: "I'm going to put music on, so unless you want to use your phone it will be my iPod, and I know how much you don't like my music."

The Dreaded One: "I do like it."

Me: "But there will be Nick Cave and Tom Waits and Rowland Howard, and I know how much you don't like them."

The Dreaded One: "I do like them."

Me: "But I will sing along to them, and I know how much you hate my singing."

The Dreaded One: "I don't hate your singing."

Me: "But you don't like my singing."

The Dreaded One: "I do like your singing."

Me: "Yeah...but you don't like my singing a lot...

The Dreaded One gives me The Look.

Pajama Men Review

These guys are reeeeeeally funny. Check out my review of them at Australian Stage.

The Histrionic Review, Malthouse 2012

My review of The Histrionic is up on Australian Stage.

Think Appreciate Love

I can't see how old I am,
And I can't see how closer to death I am,
But I am older,
And I am closer to death.

Grumpy With Compliments

GRUMPY

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). He likes being in his bubble.

I quite admire those people who always manage to say the right thing at the right time. Small, random compliments can really work some magic. I see peoples faces light up as a friend tells another friend how well they are looking, or how they like a piece of jewellery or they way they are wearing their hair today. I'm no stranger to these little compliments due primarily to the fact that I have some kick-arse clothes. I love my clothes, and I have an uncanny, sub-conscious knack for buying clothes that coordinate perfectly with all my other clothes and accessories. The Dreaded One finds this hilarious. It's like I can't buy stuff that clashes. If I had been born in the rugged wild west, it's a dead certainty that I'd be a dandy. If I was a superhero, I'd be Captain Coordinated. I'd look fabulous. All I'd have to do is walk into the room and the baddies would drop dead with envy because I'm just so impeccably dressed. I've been asked if I'm gay on many an occasion, simply because I'm such a stylish mofo. Given that I am rampantly heterosexual, do I take offence at this? On the contrary, I take it as a compliment. Water of a duck's back. The Dreaded One also finds the are you gay thing hilarious because, well, she knows how absurd the idea is. Queer eye for the straight guy? Pu-lease.

Erm... so anyway. Thing is with dressing well enough to get these compliments, you have to go for a look that isn't like everyone else. Sure, you can look stylish and like everyone else, but Grumpy's Secret To True Sartorial Excellence is to be individual. Avoid brand names. Avoid all the designers labels. Designer labels are for chumps. Don't shop at chain-stores. Look for the unusual. Looking sensationally stylish is like being funny; whatever you do, don't go for the obvious. And always remember...

Sorry. Getting a bit carried away again. What the hell was I getting at? Oh yeah... so I've got some pretty cool clothes and I sometimes get complimented on them. And it's nice. I have an AD 2013 jacket (this is a label worth checking out because no one in Australia knows about it and they make drop-dead cool stuff) that routinely has me stopped in the street with strangers saying “Oh my God that jacket is awesome!” And I shrug and say, “I know!” And then they usually ask if I'm gay.

Thing is, I admire people who compliment other people. It shows that they are being aware and it's just a bloody nice thing to do. It just doesn't seem to be in my natural make up to think to compliment other people. It's the bubble thing; I'm usually in a bubble, thinking about, I don't know – being a dandy in the wild west or something.

So I decided to make an effort and start complimenting people. As well as being a well-dressed mofo I was going to start being a really nice mofo.

At a trendy bar where everyone (except The Dreaded One and myself) looked fashionably identical, I was introduced to one of The Dreaded One's friend, and I really, genuinely admired her look. It indicated true confidence and true individualism. I was about to pay my first unprompted compliment.

“You know – it's really refreshing to meet someone who clearly doesn't care about their appearance.”

It was as though the world stopped.

“What do you mean?” The Dreaded One's friend asked.

The Dreaded One was looking at me with a familiar expression; don't say anything else, she was telling me with her eyebrows.

“I just mean,” I explained, “take your hair for instance. It's just so... bleh, and you're cool with that. I really admire... why has absolutely everyone in the bar stopped talking?”

I retreated back into my bubble. It's much safer in there.

Brainspill April 2012

I've just read Nam Le's Hiroshima. I'm not sure I got it and feel I have to read it again. I think it is cleverer than I am. Probably not a good idea to be reading something as tragic and poetic at 6.30am on the tram on the way to work.

And yet it got in there. I remember the sample from Single Gun Theory's Metaphysical... "The day was clear, when we dropped that bomb." I've been in London and Berlin and Paris, and sometimes you think it was a bright sunny day like today when tanks rolled in and evil was being done. It does your head in.

Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Big days. Clear days. Fucked up shit.

9/11 was a big day too. Atrocious shit. The worst of humanity. The photograph above is being discussed again. The article I read yesterday morning is here. I don't like the tone of the article at all. The writer comes across as a novice. We know that the Twin Towers destruction was murderous and unacceptable; there is no need to keep driving that point home in your clumsy way.

But because I had just read Nam Le's story Hiroshima, I thought I'd do some background reading, and oh man. We really should not let 9/11 eclipse the enormity of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The only times weapons of mass destruction have been unleashed have been by the USA. No warning to the innocent civillians they were about to murder. Hundreds of thousands of them. Dropping these bombs on innocent civillians as the Russians turned on Japan and within such a short time of Japan's wartime surrender anyway.

And the Americans... their big dilemma was after these two weapons of mass murder, do we drop the next few as they roll off the production line or save them up and throw handfuls at them?

Seriously, after such disgusting mass murder they were ready to drop more nuclear bombs on unsuspecting civillians.

Despicable cunts.

But the tone of the story above... it would have you believe that the 9/11 mass murder was the worst mass murder in the history of mankind. Sorry, it was not. Not by a long way.

So as the anniversary of 9/11 comes along - and an awful moment it was in our history - maybe do a little reading. Think about Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

An Interview With The Beards

I'm doing the occasional music/arts feature again and I do still enjoy it. I even had to interview electro Jam Xpress the other day and although not at all into their music or the scene where you'll hear their music played, I enjoyed the struggle of coming up with relaxed, intelligent questions that received relaxed, intelligent answers. With Jam XpressI did feel I had stepped through a hole in time and was back at my 3D World editor desk because researching music acts and DJs I didn't know about was something I did all the time... and the tone of promotional copy hasn't changed a bit in all that time. Everything is "a dancefloor stormer" and the artists have been "tearing it up across the country" etc etc. So cheesy.

But it's fun, especially when my editor is on my wavelength and lets me inject silly into the stories. It's like writing for my editor back at Drum who loved my stuff because she never knew where I was going to come from with a story. Ones like this. Fun stuff. And my current editor is pretty much the same.

If I could make a living from doing this stuff (and my Grumpy column), I would do it.

Long weekend now. The Dreaded One is champing at the bit to party today, we are partying tomorrow night (pirate party - woo!), that it's a long weekend means any form of recovery party is going to take place, and the Jam Xpress story and a Grumpy column are due on Tusday. And there may be another, unexpected writing project underway. Hmm. My Hunter S. Thompson style of partying does get me into trouble sometimes. Must be strong.

Meanwhile, have just opened a bottle of white. Cheers.

Oh and amusement... had this conversation with The Dreaded One Last night:

Me: You know before you said it's not always all about me?

Dreaded One: Yeah.

Me: What fantasy world are you living in?

Hannah Wants A Wife Review

My review of Hannah Gadsby's Hannah Wants A Wife, for Australian Stage. Go see it. She is funny. I like her.

The Daktory Vending Machine... A True Story With A Bad Accent.

GRUMPY

Grumpy is freelance writer and really bad Kiwi impersonator Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com).

If you love a good, true stoner story as much as I do, read on.

A couple of weeks ago it was reported that a cannabis club in West Auckland, New Zealand, had come up with a great way of avoiding being closed down and the licensees being arrested again. The club – called The Daktory after the owner's name Daktor Green - had already been forced to close its door after being raided in 2011.

The cannabis club appeared to be somewhat tolerated as a venue where patrons could consume pot for “medicinal purposes”, but obviously boundaries had been pushed, arrests followed raids and the Daktory closed its doors as a cannabis club and became the headquarters of Norml, the National Organisation for the Reform of Marijuana Laws.

Recently, however, The Daktory reopened for business, with a particularly crafty way of protecting its purveyors of medicinal pot, and it's here that I will take a few modest Grumpy liberties whilst still delivering the facts of the story (apologies for the dodgy accent, eh bro)...

“Hey bro. I figured out a way to sell pot without the cops realising who is selling the pot.”

“Yeah bro?”

“Yeah bro. I was wuth the kuds at the shopping mall, and we spunt like hours man on one of those skull-tester things. You know those glass boxes with the fluffy toys and the luttle crane thung, and you have to puck up the fluffy toys wuth the crane... I could have spent all day watching the little crane thing eh bro, kind of moving across and pucking up the little fluffy heads... it was mesmirising as eh...”

Long pause.

“That's a very nice story bro, but is there any more to ut? You said you had a plan bro.”

“Ah shit bro, yeah, got side-tracked thunking about the luttle crane thing eh. So anyway, what I was thunking is we take all the fluffy toys out of the skull-tester, and we replace them with bags of mull. That way, the cops can't bust anyone for selling the pot. Smart plan eh bro.”

“Ut's almost smart, but have you ever actually managed to puck up a fluffy toy wuth the luttle crane thung? Ut would take us all year to get the toys out of there. And ut would cost us shutloads of coin.”

“Nah bro – I checked that out and there's a luttle door where they put the fluffy toys in the glass box, so we just hire the machine bro and make ut empty before we put the pot unside.”

“Really? A luttle door? That would speed the process up a but. But then... it's stull so hard to actually grab anything with that luttle crane thung. If it can't pick up a fluffy toy I'm not sure of our chances of pucking up bags of mull bro, eh.”

Long silence.

“But hey bro! I've got it. We can use your basic concept but wuth a vending machine instead of a skull-tester. Then the punters can just put their money un and out pops their pot bro.”

“Awesome idea bro. AND we can also put Tum-Tams and Wagon Wheels in there as well. Kull two birds wuth one stone bro, eh bro.”

“And Chokitos. I like Chokitos heaps eh.”

“Hmm. And no one gets busted dealing. Unless...”

“Unless what bro?”

“What uf the cops install undercover vending machines?”

End of dodgy New Zealand accent. Basically, the club did install pot-dispensing vending machines in an attempt to fool the police, but a week later arrests have been made and the club has been forced to close its doors again. Seems the cops weren't fooled. Whether that was a result of undercover vending machines is unknown.

Grumpy With Celebritism

I keep forgetting to scan and post these. This is a few months old now and I had forgotten about it. Found it neglected and sobbing in the corner today and thought I'd make it feel better by finally posting it.

Haven't Stopped, Just Taking A Breather

Treading water right now. Content enough in a pedestrian job but have my fingers crossed for an eventful 2012.

Until I write more, here are a few photos from a recent adventure. I live for these parties.

Currently reading Nam Le's The Boat. Loving it. Makes me feel excited about writing again. Do pick up a copy. Very good writing.

Oh The Places You'll Go

Man I love this so much. I think Dr Seuss would like it too. I hope I make it to Burning Man in the next couple of years, but aside from the visuals in this clip, it's the story. I love the grounded optimism behind it. It really is quite beautiful.

Grumpy With Conspiracy Theorists

I haven't been posting all of my Grumpy columns because I'm a bit slack. Either that or I've been taken over by lizard aliens who think it's in the wider population's best interests that not all of my Grumpy columns be read.

I was reminded of this semi-recent column after reading that some sheriff in Arizona has fluffed up the Obama birth certificate conspiracy theory again. It's the conputer generated/layer thing again. It's not new news... in fact it's not news at all. Interesting that the sheriff in question demands an investigation into this old chestnut at the time he himself is under investigation for racial profiling (apparentlyhe don't care much for Latino types in his parts). Also, apparently, this layering in electronic copies of scanned documents is common and does not prove a document has been forged.

And yet conspiracy theorists jump on it. Thing with conspiracy theorists is that it doesn't matter what the conspiracy, they will subscibe to it. For them, nothing is random. There are no coincidences. There is just a great, all-powerful sinister force manipulating everything.

I wrote this Grumpy around the time of the approach of doomsday commet Elenin, whic many believed was going to flip the Earth over or something. What did it do again? Oh that's right - not a Goddamn thing.

I feel sorry for the doomsday wishers and conspiracy theorists. They create so much angst for themselves.

Happy Birthday To Grumpy

My most recent Grumpy columnsoon to grace the pages of Tsunami. Had a bloody nice dinner with friends at Spice Temple, then went and partied and had some very big laughs. Not sure why I wrote this in the third person, just came out that way. Read. Enjoy. My lovely editor did. She also "adored" my piece on local band The Beards (also out soon). She lets me indulge in a very casual style, which seems to make for fun reading (certainly fun writing). I adore my Ed.


GRUMPY

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com) He had a nice birthday recently.



Grumpy doesn't like birthdays. He doesn't mind other people's birthday parties, he just doesn't like his own very much. Something probably happened to him on his birthday when he was Little Grumpy that made him sad.

But some friends made plans to have dinner on his and The Dreaded One's birthday on the weekend. He thought this would be nice. There was also a club night he wanted to go to on that night but Grumpy and The Dreaded One thought they probably couldn't afford to go. Sigh.

But then just before the weekend, Grumpy got home from work and The Dreaded One told him she had won a competition she hadn't even entered – two tickets to the clubnight plus accommodation in a 4 star hotel. The club was in the hotel complex, and there was a spa in their room, and there was a rooftop pool – right on top of the roof.

Dinner was very very nice, but Grumpy was very keen to get back to the hotel and crack into a massive night of partying. Grumpy likes hotels. He also likes massive nights of partying.

The hotel was excellent. The club was excellent. Grumpy has largely gone off clubs in favour of outdoor dance festivals, but sometimes clubnights work. This was one such night. Oh the fun Grumpy and The Dreaded One and all their friends had.

At one point, someone gave Grumpy & Co a birthday treat, and 10 minutes after having their birthday treats, the music stopped - the club was closing much earlier than they expected because it was in a hotel. Uh-oh.

Disappointed, the friends went back to their hotel room where suddenly they found millions and millions and millions of things to talk about. They laughed a lot and liked each other lots more than usual.

At dawn they went to the roof-top swimming pool, which was pretty cool. They had morning drinks as the sun came up, and soon the day was bright and fresh. And soon after that, Normal People came up to work out in the gym. The gym looked out onto the roof-top pool from behind big glass windows, and while Grumpy and his friends blobbed about in giggling heaps, The Normal People pedalled and ran and rowed and did funny things on a big steppy pully up-down thing. The Normal People were much funnier than they realised.

Soon some of Grumpy's friends decided to show The Normal People how funny they were. They went down to the big windows, stared right at The Normal People, and started pedalling and running and rowing and doing funny things on imaginary big steppy pully up down things. It was the funniest thing Grumpy and the rest of the party people had ever seen.

Then the funny friends became angry drill masters, shouting through the glass at The Normal People who were just not putting enough effort into it. “Pedal harder!” they shouted. “Run faster! Row harder! Go more crazy on that steppy pully up-down thing!”

One of the friends even ran on the spot in front of the treadmill-running person, looking over his shoulder in fright as though he was being chased by the running Normal Person.

It was around this time that Grumpy remembered that the theme of the night had been Aztec; half of the very loose people by the rooftop pool who were falling about laughing were dressed as Aztec warriors in leathers and feathers and runny make-up. The rest were just regular doofer types, dressed in leathers and feathers and fluff. What must The Normal People have thought?

Grumpy was pretty sure it was one of the better birthdays he'd had. If every birthday could be this surprising and this silly, he might celebrate them more often.

Grumpy At The Crossroads

Latest Grumpy column coming out in a forthcoming issue of Tsunami Mag. Grumpy sells his soul at The Crossroads and writes perhaps the greatest blues song ever written. Oh yeah baby.

GRUMPY

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com), and he ain't nothing but a loose cannon feeling bad.

Things are pretty bad in the world of Grumpy. I'm feelin' kinda blue. I ain't got no job. Down to my last bottle of bourbon. My girl left me for another man. I'm at a crossroad. Maybe I'm at THE crossroad and it's time to make a deal with the devil.

Recently I had to interview local band The Beards. Maybe you've heard of these guys. They write songs about beards, then they sing these songs about beards. Just beards, beards beards, and mostly just how much better a man is if he's got a beard. Real men are supposed to have beards, and it's offensive to their manhood and the natural order of things to scrape away their beards.

Their song titles are things like No Beard, No Good; Who Told You To Shave Off Your Beard; and If Your Dad Doesn't Shave, You've Got Two Mums. Weird thing is that as basically silly as these songs sound, they're actually pretty good. Get these for some well-crafted lyrics: “I'm not in the mood for strokin'/ For pink bits pokin/ Chocolate sauce/ Intercourse...” Kind of idiotic out of context, but within the context of the song, they work the way, say, Spinal Tap's Big Bottom works (“Big bottom, big bottom/Talk about bum cakes/my girl's got 'em/ Big bottom drive me out of my mind/ How could I leave this behind?”). Inspired, really.

In thinking about my current situation, The Crossroads and making deals with the devil, I recalled the quote from the movie The Crossroads that said “Blues ain't nothin' but a good man feeling bad.” So I made a deal with the devil, and low and behold came up with a blues song that I hope is as good as The Beards' folk/rock or Spinal Tap's metal. My song goes a little something like this...

One day my baby asked me (this was before she left me)

She looked at me through swimming pool eyes,

And asked me what was on the TV (on the TV)

I turned to my baby (yeah this was when she was still here)

And told her through a breath of sorrow and beer,

What the hell kind of crazy-assed question

Is that to ask a loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy like me?

I'm just a loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy,

With the loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy blues.

This other time she asked me (as she walked out the door),

Through a sad smile as she held packed bags,

If it bothered me that she ain't gonna be here no more.

I put down my guitar and looked at her (she was still here, but she was going)

Told her there was no way for a guy like me of knowing (of knowing),

And anyway what the hell kind of crazy-assed question

Is that to ask a loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy like me?

I'm just a loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy,

With the loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy blues.

There is more. Lots more. But we're running out of space, and besides, I don't want my heartache to get inside and mess you up the way it done did me... did, because it hurts real bad, my heartache. You can trust me on that, you can done do.

Right now I'm going to sit here all by myself, out on the porch with my faithful pooch – T-Bone Kincaid – and write me some more heartfelt lyrics to I'm Just A Loose Cannon, Rock 'n Roll Vagina-lovin' Guy With The Loose Cannon, Rock 'n Roll Vagina-lovin' Guy Blues. Sold my soul to the devil for this, but I think it will be worth it in the long run. Don't think my song writing has ever been better.

Love & Crime

New project. Short story collection. I think it will be called something like Love & Crime. I appear to write about love and crime quite a lot. Maybe Love, Death & Crime. I'm getting it ready for the Penguin Monthly Catch gig. I want Penguin to be my publisher because I like Penguins. Failing that, I'm going to look at self-publishing, because this is fun.

Track listing goes like this:

Remembering Argos - A guy grows old. Will make you cry. Promise.

Ruben Jane - Leather jackets, loud music, drugs, love and death. Dark and beautiful. Been known to make people cry.

Blue Angeline - Hypnotic, narcotic, atmospheric. Forgotten trinkets, forgotten promises, forgotten love. I like this one even if no one else gets it.

Love Letter - A headstone can be a love letter. Sweet laughter in the cemetery. Happy tears this time.

Silver Screen Daydream - A loser in love. Funny and sad. You will laugh and want to hug Ewan.

Finding Davey - Family life gone wrong. It happens. Old age happens. Will make you sad.

Boy & Girl - Short and bittersweet.

Two Shadows - Not quite of this world, but close. Lovely and unrealistically heart-warming.

Treading Water At Turtle Bay - Proper melancholy at its heart but with some solid comedy.

Ants - An old family guy has some voyeuristic fun in the park. Unsettlingly amusing.

The Funniest Man In The World Tells A Funny Story - What, you need an explanation?

Man & Boy - I swear I had never heard of Oh The Places You Will Go before writing this. I think Dr Seuss would approve of this one.

Quick - Who is Quick? What is he? We're getting tough now. Everyone likes Quick, dark fucker that he is.

Best Man - Marriage? Love? Hahaha. Blam. It's about revenge. Bitch.

Stabulous The Clown - A story about being on acid, on acid. A vigilante in a clown suit. Fucked up and funny.

Being Groove Terminator - A case of mistaken identity that is a true story, except for the made up bits. Lots of fun. It really is a true story. Mostly.

Grumpy With Twitter

A recent Grumpy column about my bafflement with Twitter. I gave it a go and I just don't get it. It just feels utterly pointless and yet another way to waste time on the internet... and a pretty annoying one at that. It must be me though because a gazzilion tweeters can't be wrong, can they.

Anyway, click n the image, then again to make it readable, and enjoy.

I'm off to post a link on Facebook now and see what everyone is up to.

See? Who needs Twitter when there's Facebook?

Birth Of A Loose Cannon

GRUMPY

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com) Word on the street is that he's a bit of a loose cannon.



A while ago I was told that I was a stalwart, by two separate people on two separate occasions. In one weekend.

I guess this is something of an achievement, something to be proud of. Me, a stalwart. Two people. Two distinct and separate occasions. In fact it's possibly even a little bit cool because both people were talking about me being a stalwart of the doof scene. When they had first started going to outdoor parties, I was there, an entrenched part of the scene, and here I was all this time later still going strong when many other former stalwarts had lost some of their stalwartiness. I was a rock. You could count on me. Definitely, this was something to feel good about.

However, it made me realise that I had always harboured the desire to be called something else. I have been quietly aching to be called a loose cannon. Just once, by one person, on one occasion. Compared to loose cannon, being called a stalwart was like being told you are nice, as opposed to be told you are cool. I hadn't realised how long I had been carrying around this loose cannon thing until shortly after The Double Stalwart Incident. Why had no one ever told me I was a loose cannon?

I had even spent more time than I care to admit coping with my desire to be called a loose cannon by imagining that it was the kind of thing that was happening all the time in my absence.

“Wow, man, I was hanging out with Grumpy the other night and whoa, that guy is a loose cannon.”

“Tell me about it. When they came up with the phrase loose cannon, they had him in mind.”

However, thinking about it, that conversation has probably never taken place. More likely it would go:

“Gee – I was thinking about Grumpy the other day and you know what I realised?”

“Stalwart?”

“How did you know?”

“I was thinking the exact same thing. In fact I think you could go so far as to say he's a double stalwart.”

I eventually asked friends if someone could humour me and just call me a loose cannon, just once. Please? They asked me why they would do such a thing because to be a loose cannon you have to do the kind of things loose cannons do, and I did not do these things. Ergo, they mercilessly went on, I can't be called a loose cannon.

Okay so I'm not exactly Charlie Sheen, but I have my own loose cannon ways. Like, getting ready for a theatre opening night the other night I found I only had mismatched socks left. What did I do? I wore mismatched socks – and got away with it. Loose Cannon.

The other day I ate two rows of chocolate, which is my usual limit, but as there was only one more row left, I ate it too. Three rows. Loose cannon.

I spent a whole day recently being completely naked. Loose. Cannon.

I even posted Killing Joke's Loose Cannon on a certain social networking site as my theme song, just to drive my point home.

The really funny thing about my ongoing campaign – and yes I know my loose cannon activities are a long way from partying with pornstars and saying wild and crazy things in the media like “WINNING!” - but the really funny thing is that my very amused friends everywhere have started doing it. Friends I hadn't realised had been following this ongoing joke... it's been happening in emails, in text messages, and in real life. I imagine strangers overhearing my friends telling me I'm such a loose cannon, and them saying to their friends, “Watch out for that guy – I hear he's a bit of a loose cannon.”

Yes. WINNING!

Grumpy Is A Loose Cannon

This is a work in progresscalled Loose Cannon. It will be my next Grumpy column, I feel. I've started a pretty lame campaign to convince everyone that I am a loose cannon. Odd socks to a theatre opening night? Loose cannon. Eating three rows of chocolate when two is my usual limit? Loose cannon. Going a whole day without wearing pants, I am a loose cannon, and that's how a loose cannon rolls.

More later.

It's later now, and here's an update. This is the resulting Grumpy column of me becoming a loose cannon...

GRUMPY

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com) Word on the street is that he's a bit of a loose cannon.



A while ago I was told that I was a stalwart, by two separate people on two separate occasions. In one weekend.

I guess this is something of an achievement, something to be proud of. Me, a stalwart. Two people. Two distinct and separate occasions. In fact it's possibly even a little bit cool because both people were talking about me being a stalwart of the doof scene. When they had first started going to outdoor parties, I was there, an entrenched part of the scene, and here I was all this time later still going strong when many other former stalwarts had lost some of their stalwartiness. I was a rock. You could count on me. Definitely, this was something to feel good about.

However, it made me realise that I had always harboured the desire to be called something else. I have been quietly aching to be called a loose cannon. Just once, by one person, on one occasion. Compared to loose cannon, being called a stalwart was like being told you are nice, as opposed to be told you are cool. I hadn't realised how long I had been carrying around this loose cannon thing until shortly after The Double Stalwart Incident. Why had no one ever told me I was a loose cannon?

I had even spent more time than I care to admit coping with my desire to be called a loose cannon by imagining that it was the kind of thing that was happening all the time in my absence.

“Wow, man, I was hanging out with Grumpy the other night and whoa, that guy is a loose cannon.”

“Tell me about it. When they came up with the phrase loose cannon, they had him in mind.”

However, thinking about it, that conversation has probably never taken place. More likely it would go:

“Gee – I was thinking about Grumpy the other day and you know what I realised?”

“Stalwart?”

“How did you know?”

“I was thinking the exact same thing. In fact I think you could go so far as to say he's a double stalwart.”

I eventually asked friends if someone could humour me and just call me a loose cannon, just once. Please? They asked me why they would do such a thing because to be a loose cannon you have to do the kind of things loose cannons do, and I did not do these things. Ergo, they mercilessly went on, I can't be called a loose cannon.

Okay so I'm not exactly Charlie Sheen, but I have my own loose cannon ways. Like, getting ready for a theatre opening night the other night I found I only had mismatched socks left. What did I do? I wore mismatched socks – and got away with it. Loose Cannon.

The other day I ate two rows of chocolate, which is my usual limit, but as there was only one more row left, I ate it too. Three rows. Loose cannon.

I spent a whole day recently being completely naked. Loose. Cannon.

I even posted Killing Joke's Loose Cannon on a certain social networking site as my theme song, just to drive my point home.

The really funny thing about my ongoing campaign – and yes I know my loose cannon activities are a long way from partying with pornstars and saying wild and crazy things in the media like “WINNING!” - but the really funny thing is that my very amused friends everywhere have started doing it. Friends I hadn't realised had been following this ongoing joke... it's been happening in emails, in text messages, and in real life. I imagine strangers overhearing my friends telling me I'm such a loose cannon, and them saying to their friends, “Watch out for that guy – I hear he's a bit of a loose cannon.”

Yes. WINNING!

Grumpy With The Internet

A recent Grumpy column from the pages of Tsunami mag. Not the most recent, just the first one I grabbed after figuring out how to make the image thing on Blogger work properly again. And in fact, I didn't figure it out at all; someone else was having the same problem and someone who had figured it out told them how to fix it and I just followed their instructions. Click on the image to make it big, then again to make it readable.

Enjoy.